


Gilded Trust

by Aurorafulnerd



Series: LU Disc stuff [2]
Category: Linked Universe - Fandom, The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild, The Legend of Zelda: The Ocarina of Time
Genre: Affection, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I just have a strong need for these two to not be sad today, Minor Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-15 04:58:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18491836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurorafulnerd/pseuds/Aurorafulnerd
Summary: Many of the heroes would argue that a night in the forest was oppressive. That the thick darkness under the leaves was an omen of battles and nightmares to come. Wild does not count himself among that group.





	Gilded Trust

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the Unlikely Friendship prompt from the Linked Universe Discord! If you don't know what Linked Universe is I highly recommend you check it and Jojo, the creator, out on Tumblr.

Many of the heroes would argue that a night in the forest was oppressive. That the thick darkness under the leaves was an omen of battles and nightmares to come. Wild does not count himself among that group. 

He finds solace in the sleepy quiet of nature, interrupted only by a ghostly lullaby of wind on leaves. His eyes adjust quickly to the low lighting of moonbeams that dapple the forest floor. He moves through the trees with even more grace and caution then he does in the light, scarcely making a sound as he treads reverently through the undergrowth. In truth, he had come out here for a moment of peace, though he had told his companions otherwise. Having them believe that he was gathering herbs was easier then explaining how _wrong_ it felt to constantly be in a group. He had woken alone, traveled alone, _survived..._

Alone. 

How could he tell them that their mere presence put him on edge? That the barbaric nature of his world had taught him to fear others more than he feared the blackest of shadows that crawled through the night? How would they take it if he told them truthfully why he flinched from their comforting hugs and supportive words? Would they think less of him, that his mind was so messed up he had no memory of domesticity to compare their actions to?

He is jerked from his spiraling mind by the sharp snap of branches. An angry growl reaches him through the silence, followed closely by the enraged roar of some baddie or another. Before he has time to think it through, he's darting towards the sound. His right hand instinctively drops to the slate on his hip, and with a few taps the familiar weight of his weapons is settling onto his back. Over his shoulder he pulls the reinforced bow he looted a few fights ago, from his quiver he draws two arrows; putting the shaft of one between his teeth as he lays the other on his string.

Ahead of him, the trees thin out and the ethereal moonlight strengthens. He has time to register one motionless moblin, and a gold wolf fighting another before muscle memory raises the bow and an arrow pierces the eye of the standing enemy. The moblin screams, a low, growling, terrible sound, and staggers. The wolf, seemingly unfazed by the sudden aid, launches itself at the towering creature, fangs reaching for it's neck. They pierce and hold, even when the moblin roughly grabs it's foreleg and sends it flying across the clearing, where it hits the ground and rolls with a dull thud. 

The moblin's breathing is audible now, thanks to the gaping hole in it's throat, and it stumbles blindly, one massive hand at it's eyes and the other at it's open windpipe. Wild doesn't hesitate to send his second arrow. He feels no need to double check it's hit its mark between the moblin's ribs, and instead turns worried eyes toward the golden wolf.

He approaches cautiously, some feral instinct from his journey taking hold and causing him to lower his body into a crouch. It slightly raises its head and one of its red eyes meets his. He stops instinctively, and waits. For what? Its permission? He just wants to help it, to reach out and check the blood on its side, the odd angle of its foreleg; but the place in his mind that has flourished in his many weeks beyond civilization keeps him still. 

So, he waits. Waits until its red eye slips closed, and it lays its head on the ground. Open, waiting for him now instead of the other way around. He admires its trust briefly, then slips quietly to its side. He's aware of his own voice echoing in quiet reassuring tones as his fingers catalog its wounds. The blood on its flank is a superficial wound, barely a scratch, but the rough grab and toss of the moblin has dislocated its leg. Whispering feather-light apologies, he begins massaging the shoulder, pressing firm fingers into the muscles until he feels them relax. He lines up the scapula, and just like that the shoulder is sliding back into place.

He lets out a shaky breath he hadn't know he was holding, sitting back from the side of the wolf. He closes his eyes briefly, and when he opens them again the wolf has resumed its staring at him. It huffs a short breath before sitting, immediately pulling its paw from the ground as soon as its upright. It dips its head slightly, and in it's eyes he reads _trust, care, thankfulness_. Then, pulling itself to its feet, it heads into the woods. 

Towards their camp.

"Wait." He commands softly, and the wolf stops. "My friends have camp over there. As much as I'd like to, I can't say I would trust them leaving you alone."

Its ears flick up, and its head turns back to him. He swears by the look on its face that it's heard more from that statement than his words said. Then, its body is moving back to him, he barely suppresses a breath of surprise when it brushes up against his side and leans its weight on him. Its head comes down to lay across his neck, and that feral instinct settles down inside his chest. Cautiously, conscious of its leg, he settles his own weight against its. Turning his head he sees his own _puzzlement, affection, happiness_ reflected in its gaze. Drifting his eyes upwards to the moon he becomes aware of the time that's passed. He really should be returning to his group. He can't bare to tear himself from the soul-settling weight of the wolf though, and allows himself a moment longer to drift in the reassuring presence.

When the wolf finally pulls away, headed in the other direction this time, he returns to camp. He doesn't think much of Time and Twi sitting close together, talking in hushed voices. He doesn't see the fond glaces sent toward him when he's readying his bedroll for the night. Never puts it together when Time's arm in in a makeshift sling the following morning with some tale of how he slept on it badly.

He does, however, notice when the wolf begins showing up regularly on his nighttime walks, especially the ones where he's feeling his worst. Learns how to see the sadness and vacancy of it's expressions for the type of presence it needs him to be. And if both he and Time are feeling much happier in the days following, then nobody that knows is going to ruin that.


End file.
